JEM Stars 3: Time to Roar
by Del Schiz
Summary: The Misfits open their ranks to a newcomer: the confrontational and clever Jetta. Pizzazz is all for it, Stormer giddily goes along, but Roxy seems reluctant. Could jealousy be behind her 'anti Jetta' stance? [on hold until JEM Stars is completed]
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: This story can be considered the third story in the "JEM Stars" saga (even though the first is unfinished and the second one hasn't even been written yet).

**Time to Roar, Part One**  
a misfits femmeslash fanfic by d.l. schizoauthoress

_**dedicated to Stormkeeper**_

---

_The game is near the end  
They can't reverse the trend  
Victory's in store  
Baby, it's time to roar  
We're takin' it all_

---

"What's wrong, Roxy?" Eric inquires in one of his smarmier tones, "Afraid we'll find somebody better than you?"

"They don't come any better than me, buster! Let's go." Roxy growls back, raising one of her hard fists in defiance. I barely suppress a smile at Roxy's bravado. She isn't scared, that much is true, but I know she has doubts about her own worth.

To soothe her, I sling an arm around her shoulders as we walk out of Eric's office together. And I whisper, "Nobody comes close to you, Rox."

"Hmmph," she grunts, acting all tough, even though she knows I can see the left corner of her mouth turning upward into a reluctant smile. "Says you, Pizzazz."

"That's right," I shoot back in my sweetest voice, bestowing a quick little peck on her cheek, "says **me**!"

---

"The Tinkerbillys, direct from London!" Stormer reads off a fresh poster near the entrance of yet another club. How she can dredge up that much enthusiasm after the trash we've been hearing all night is beyond me.

"Forget it, Stormer," Eric says, "they're nobodies."

That's it. Far as I'm concerned, everybody we've listened to tonight has ended up being 'nobody'. Who does Eric think he is, anyway, some hotshot talent-scout? Don't make me laugh! All the bands that Eric has 'discovered'? They were better staying unknown -- it's the Misfits who bring in most of the money that keeps Misfits Music in the black.

"Eric," I cut in, "we've been to **ten clubs**! I've **had** it! We don't **need** another Misfit!"

And it's true, we really don't. The three of us came together on our own. We only went to Eric because he had a major label under his thumb, and we'd been trying for a while to get a recording contract without success.

Behind me, Roxy mumbles, "My feet hurt."

I don't know why I let Eric talk me into this wild goose chase. We've got a good thing going! I trust Roxy and Stormer, and I **know** that Stormer trusts Roxy and I. Roxy...well, I'm a little biased when it comes to Roxy. But she really is friends with Stormer, and I like to think that she loves me (and is just too proud of her toughness to say such a mushy-gushy thing).

Stormer is listening intently to the music that drifts out through the club's open doors, despite Eric's dismissal of the band. "Whoa!" she exclaims, getting our attention, "Listen to that saxophone! It's so powerful!"

The people inside the club obviously don't share Stormer's high opinion of the Tinkerbillys, if those boos and shouts of 'Get off the stage!' are any indication. "Well," I say, barely stifling a laugh, "anybody who gets that much of a reaction can't be all that bad."

Still, why not humor her? I flash Roxy an amused look. "Let's check it out."

---

People are throwing anything they can get their hands on at the band on the stage. The men scatter quickly, but the only female Tinkerbilly stands at the front of the stage, a jet-black saxophone --same color as her wild, silver-highlighted mane of hair -- in one hand, refusing to move. "Get off the stage!" shouts the crowd, "Go back to England!"

Even as I observe this, the four of us skirt the dance floor where those discontented listeners are, making our way to the stage. Nobody pays attention to us, and for once, that's okay with me.

"I'll show you ruddy Yanks!" the saxophonist screams, her icy grey eyes flaring with rage. Adjusting her grip on her instrument, she dives into the crowd, weilding the sax like a club. "Move it or lose it!"

I check that Roxy and Stormer have found proper instruments from the ones left onstage. Stormer smiles in that angelic way she has and flashes me a thumbs-up, while Roxy gives me a devilish grin. I nod at them, putting my hands on my hips, and Roxy gives voice to a loud, piercing whistle. Wish I could do that.

Hushed now, the crowd mumurs, "The Misfits...the Misfits..."

"I like your style," I tell the British girl. Challengingly, I ask, "Think you can keep up with us?"

With her looking straight at me, I can see that her eyes are really a smoky pale violet. She growls, "Depends on whether or not **you** can keep up with **me**!"

"Hmmph," I hear from behind me, as Roxy starts in on the bass line. Stormer joins in without missing a beat. Barely three seconds go by before the Brit joins in, perfecting the opening. I'm impressed. Stormer'd been trying for weeks to come up with something I could play on lead guitar, but I'd been shooting down everything she gave me, dismissing it as too weak-sounding or too difficult to play.

"I come right out, say what I feel," I croon into the mic. Immediately, that saxophone wails out again, barely into the first line. Why, that scene-stealing stage hog! _Work with it, Pizzazz!_ I tell myself, _don't blow it!_

Controlling my anger, I continue, "I won't mince words, you got my appeal..."

Then Roxy and Stormer are backing me up with, "B-b-baby, I like, I like your style; I like, I like your style," and I know it's coming together.

Turning to the new girl, pointing, "I know you are versatile. I like, I like your styyyle..." _But, girl, you better learn quick who runs the show, and it's not that money-grubbing suit in wings._

A pause, barely noticable, to take a breath as I step off stage. "I won't waste time; I come the the point." Zeroing in on a nerdy guy at one of the nearest tables, I turn on the charm. I run my index finger along his jawline. He reaches out to touch me (_Disgusting!_) as I sing, "You don't belong," a quick little shove against his face, refusing his advance, "in this kind of joint!"

"B-b-baby, I like, I like your style; I like, I like your style," we Misfits sing in harmony. As I turn to the stage, I see Stormer, beaming like it was Christmas and her birthday all at once, eye-to-eye with the saxophonist. A sarcastic thought pops into my head, _A little mutual attraction? How sweet._ "I know you are versatile. I like, I like your style..."

I take my place beside the Brit onstage. "We could make some noise, you and I," I sing, pointing at her once again. She better be getting the message. I feel a little like a recruiting poster, without the stripey top hat.

"Hoo-hoo, whoo-hoo-hoo!" My backup singers think that they're funny.

"Are you ready, are you willing to try?"

Last repeat of the chorus, amid the shouts and cheers from a pumped-up audience, "B-b-baby, I like, I like your style; I like, I like your style. I know you are versatile. I like, I like your style..." and to finish them off, I drag out the final line, "Yeaaaaahhh, I...I like your style!"

We all thrust a fist into the air, basking in the adulation of the fans. The fact that this girl can synchronize with us so quick seals my resolve. Turning to her, I give her a rare compliment, "Hey, you play a wicked sax!" and offer quickly, "How'd you like to be a Misfit?"

"Sounds pretty ace to me," she replies, and I can see the interest lighting up her face, the calculating gleam in her eye.

"Not so fast!" Roxy cries, and suddenly she's between the two of us. Like she has to protect me from this girl. "Nobody joins this group unless me and Stormer say so too! What do you say, Stormer?"

Well, if Roxy was looking for support from our keyboardist, she was going to be sorely disappointed. I choke down a sarcastic burst of laughter as Stormer giddily exclaims, "I **love** her accent!" with the same enthusiasm she had when saying 'direct from London!'

I thought, _Maybe Stormer has a thing for girls with flashy accents. It would explain the crate full of subtitled French films in her room, at least._

But anyway, Stormer's blithe, kinda clueless reply does nothing but make Roxy even madder. She grabs the neck of the saxophone and snarls, "Well, I say she gets lost!" and yanks on it hard, causing the violet-eyed Brit to stumble forward a step.

"Oh, yeah?" she spits caustically, pulling her saxophone back. Just then, I notice that she's written something on her yellow plastic bangle in black marker, just one word: 'Jetta'. The distance between the two narrows, and she -- Jetta, it must be -- raises and shakes a threatening fist. "Well, I say I ought clean your clock!"

I can see the change in Roxy almost immediately. This is familiar ground to her. But if she pounds this girl Jetta into hamburger meat, I swear I'll lock her out of the mansion. I swear. Roxy speaks softly, confident in her ability to win, "Go ahead and try."

Before either of them can go at it, Eric intercedes, snapping, "Let me handle this!" at Roxy.

Roxy steps back, her right hand in a fist, lifting to aim at the back of Eric's head. I snatch her wrist tightly, and her eyes lock onto mine. My grip relaxes, my hand slides down to her hand, stroking the fist loose so I can weave our fingers together briefly.

Eric demands, "Where's your work permit?"

Jetta blows him off, breezily stating, "Hm, I must have left it in the Rolls, last time I was visiting the Prince of Wales..."

Roxy gives a sniff of disbelief and pulls her hand from mine, cocking it in a fist at her hip, sending a roseate glare toward Jetta. Eric isn't letting anything deter him, sending back a poison dart of his own, "Which means you can't legally work in the United States."

The satisfied smirk on Roxy's face disturbs me a little bit. Why does she feel so angry about letting Jetta join up? Well, I want Jetta in the band, and I won't let Roxy or anything like a silly work permit stop me from getting what I want.

"When Immigration gets wind of her, they'll deport her," Eric tells us, and the look on his face tells me that he wants us to walk away, leave this hassle behind and find somebody else. Like I'm gonna listen to him!

"**Relax**, Eric! Daddy's lawyers will take care of that!" I cry, enjoying the look of defeat on his face as I push him away and step toward Jetta.

She looks at me, adoration clear in her expression. In surprise, she asks, "They **will**? Ooh, luv," she points at me, "I like your style, too! I'm **in**!"

I can tell, without looking, that Roxy is pouting when she says, "I still say she'll be nothing but trouble!" I turn toward her anyway. And I can tell, too, that I've won.

"We're all gonna be trouble, for Jem and the Holograms!" Exhilarated by my victory, I crow, "Watch out, Jem! The new Misfits are gonna getcha!"

---

Eric has called two cabs for us, one to take him and Jetta back to Jetta's place and then to our mansion, and one to take Stormer, Roxy, and I straight home. Stormer's in the front seat, flirting coyly with the cabbie, a handsome Hispanic man of about thirty, I'd guess.

"What's the matter with you?" I ask. Roxy, who has pulled her whole body away from me, even angling her knees toward her door, stares out the window and doesn't answer. "Roxy, c'mon!"

"Why'd you have to let her join the Misfits?" Roxy mutters, in a voice so flat I can hardly tell that it's a question.

"What is this, you still worried about that four-way profit split?" I ask lightly, trying to make a joke of it.

She sneers; I can see it reflected in the glass. "More like a two-way split," she whispers mysteriously, and despite my further efforts, she won't say any more.

to be continued

More Notes: Do you guys realize, there is no scene in "The Talent Search, Part One" where Jetta tells the Misfits and Eric her name? They cut right to that press conference with Eric introducing her. So I had to make up a way for 'Zazz to deduce the girl's name...a bit contrived, I realize, but I hope it worked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Time to Roar, Part Two  
**a misfits femmeslash fanfic by d.l. schizoauthoress

**_dedicated to Stormkeeper_**

_Congratulations!  
You're on your way out  
From here on in, I'll be takin' the lead  
Congratulations!  
You're on your way out  
I'm bound to win, I was born to succeed  
---_

With Jetta established in the room to the right of mine, we ready ourselves for some well-earned rest and relaxation. Roxy's room is directly across the hall to mine, and Stormer's is on the left of hers, directly across from Jetta.

Stormer is painting her nails again; her door is open and the portable fan is whirring, just loud enough for me to hear over the noise my other bandmates are making. Jetta is still rearranging her things, not that she has much right now. Roxy's door is firmly shut, but she is definitely not asleep. Part of me wants to get up and pound on her door, scream at her to stop banging away on that damned drumkit, but most of me wants to stay in my recliner and get my feet massaged.

"Ooh!" I cry softly as the massage therapist (really, he's Daddy's personal trainer and masseuse, not mine) hits a particularly tender spot on my left heel. I snap at him, "Be careful! That hurts!"

"I'm sorry," he tells me calmly, "but it's going to, a little. You have some adhesions here. Probably from all that walking, and not enough water over the past few days. I'll try to be more gentle, Miss Gabor."

Mollified, I settle for grumbling "You do that, buster," at him and pick up my book. H.G. Wells, The Time Machine. I've read it at least ten times already, and I never get tired of it. What I am tired of is having a spastic drum-majorette for a roomie.

"Hey!" I shout. No response. "Rox!" Still nothing. Just that wild, raging percussion beat. Finally losing my temper, I grab the nearest thing on the nightstand -- a five-armed brass candleholder, complete with French Vanilla-scented tapers -- and fling it at her door, shrieking, "Rox-y! **Quit** it!"

Silence, for all of ten seconds. Then, badum-dum-clash -- that cliche post-joke drumroll. I can't help it. I laugh.

---

There's something wrong, some weird tension in the air as the new Misfits -- Jetta, Roxy, Stormer, and I -- endure the ministrations of the TV station's hair-and-makeup people. Jetta is soaking up this newfound attention, snapping orders at the girls unfortunate enough to have to work on her. Stormer submits to the mercilessness of the male hairdresser assigned to taming her wild curls. Roxy and I know that once the guy lets Stormer up, she'll just toss her head, upsetting all that work, and tuck her orange silk daisy into place. I've seen the mischievious grin she has while doing it.

Roxy is nothing but nonstop complaints. She's getting prodded with liner pencils; how many times do they have to mess up the pattern of her eyeshadow; this stylist rounded her nails, and she only gets squared-off nail tips; that stylist got Aqua Net in her eyes, dammit! But not even Roxy's bitching can get me upset -- and I know that, for some reason that she won't say, she wants me upset. But I am thoroughly enjoying all the pampering I'm getting.

Roxy will just have to deal with disappointment.

---

She is dealing with it by pointing out, loudly, "Hey! That's the wrong shade of orange!" when someone butts in.

"Oh, give it a rest, you big baby!" Jetta barks out suddenly, causing the makeup artist working on her lips to jump. A dark fuschia slash of lipstick appears on her left cheek. Roxy glares at her as she is cleaned up with a makeup remover cloth and sneers,

"Big baby, huh? When it comes to experience, you're the baby, Jetta!"

Everyone pauses, enraptured by the drama unfolding before them. Everyone but me, that is. I'm just pissed off that Roxy couldn't say this at the mansion, or maybe in the car when she was giving all of us the silent treatement. Noooo, she had to wait until there was an audience in it for her, she couldn't just **tell** me what was bothering her.

The stylists have backed away from Roxy now. Maybe they're scared of getting burned. "Pizzazz only let you in the band because she felt sorry for you. But you won't last a week with us!" Roxy rises from her chair, ripping off the sheet-like makeup bib as she stands. "The Misfits are the big-time, **Tinkerbilly**, and don't you forget it!"

"Big-time! The big-time!" Jetta repeats shrilly, incredulously. "How can the Misfits be 'the big-time' if they have to drag around a small-timer like you, you gutter trash?"

Roxy whirls to face Jetta, and I realize with a chill that Roxy could kill her. Could and would kill her, for that insult.

"Jetta," I say in a low, sweet voice. They both freeze. I stand up slowly, sweping off my own makeup bib with a regal gesture, and continue, "Jetta, did you just insult the Misfits? Did you just insult me?"

"No!" Jetta cries, "I didn't!" _That's right, bitch, be afraid of me. I'm not afraid to call Daddy's lawyers and tell them to forget about that work permit of yours._

"I think you did," I argue, slinking over to her chair. Cornering her. "I think you implied that I'd waste my time in a musical group that wasn't the absolute best. Didn't you?"

Jetta shakes her head emphatically, protesting, "I didn't mean to, Pizzazz! Honestly, why would I insult you when you've been so good to me?"

Roxy sniffs derisively. Stormer has stood as well, and moved over to my other side. I shift my gaze to her, and note with approval that her usually gentle expression is altered by the cold, turbulent blue eyes that inspired me to give her that stage name. Stormer is now furious. Roxy is now cold and disdaining, but she can shift into firey fury in a heartbeat. And I? I am about to reveal to Jetta just how much she is in my mercy, and what it means to be vulnerable around me.

"Listen to me, Jetta," I command softly. "Listen real good, girl. I want you in this band. I want you to be a Misfit. And what I want, I get. But," I continue, enjoying the sight of Jetta's first hopeful, then wary expression. "I don't want people stealing my thunder. I don't want people pissing off my friends. I don't want you turning out to be a fake.

"Roxy's right," and here Roxy's eyes soften, just barely, as she glances at me, "I did get up on that stage last night because I felt sorry for you. I felt sorry for you, because I thought you were a person worthy to be one of us, slumming it with that crappy band, in that crappy club. **Don't** prove me wrong, Jetta."

And, as one, the original Misfits turn their backs on Jetta and walk away. To the caterer's table, of course. Eric dragged us out of bed and hustled us off before we could eat a proper breakfast this morning.

I pull apart one of the plain bagels arranged on a tray, generously spreading one side with cream cheese, the other with strawberry jam. Sticking both sides back together, I nibble daintily at the messy concoction, watching my bandmates with amusement.

Stormer has gotten someone to buy her a small container of cottage cheese -- that sweet, pleading look of hers works miracles. She is parked on the table by the display of sliced fruit, dipping in pieces of apples and peaches and eating them with her fingers. Roxy juggles two maple bars, a glazed lemon-filled donut, an orange, and a full glass of milk as she wanders about, looking for a place to sit. Jetta, isolated by our unspoken agreement, hovers near the stage entrance, munching on a pear.

"Let me sit down with you, Pizzazz." Roxy says, speaking around the maple bar shoved between her teeth. Except it sounds like: 'Lemme si' 'own w'ya 'Zazz.'

Gazing up at her through my mascaraed lashes, I inquire, "Why?"

"Cos I got all this **stuff**; Pizzazz, come on!" she whines, voice muffled. I only smile at her and finish my bagel, knowing that it irritates her when I don't answer. Finally, she offers, "I'll give you a maple bar. I know you like them."

"That's why you got two, sweetie," I point out, letting her take my seat. Then I perch daintily on her lap and take her glass of milk and the donut that's not in her mouth. With one of her hands finally free, she begins eating. I watch her wolfing down her food, sipping from her glass. I stand up and stretch once I've finished my maple bar.

As fast as Roxy eats, she's barely finished when Eric comes backstage. He grumps, "Come on, ladies, your public awaits!" and checks himself out in one of the mirrors, smoothing his brows with his fingers. I wonder if I could get Roxy to hold him down so I could pluck those monstrosities. That would be fun.

"It's just the press, not the public. And the press can 'await' a little longer, Eric," I chide him, motioning one of the makeup people over for a final check and touch-up.

"Yeah, we're stars!" Roxy chips in. Jetta, who'd been heading for the stage when Eric ordered us out, halts suddenly, glares at Roxy, and pretends to casually head back to us.

Stormer is nervously smoothing her outfit. "Roxy," she calls, turning her back to us and looking over her shoulder, "is my skirt wrinkled?"

"Little bit," Roxy responds, moving over to help her.

Jetta slides into a spot beside me, murmuring, "Pizzazz, about earlier...I'm really sorry."

"You should be," I reply breezily.

"Anything I can do to make it up to you?" She asks smoothly, moving her hand almost to touch my shoulder, but letting it hover. "Anything at all?"

I busy myself by brushing imaginary lint off my jacket. "Let me think," I tell her.

"Because," she continues, as if I hadn't spoken at all, "I'd hate for us to have this silly quarrel between us. Especially if we can make time to visit the Queen Mum, when we tour Great Britain."

"Really?" I ask, my interest piqued. Visions of myself in Buckingham Palace, trading witty reparte with royalty, start dancing in my head. Add Jem being hustled off by the palace guards by order of the Queen for good measure. Oooh.

"Oh, yes, luv. I'd be able to get us in. Known the royals since I was a bitty baby." Jetta smiles distantly, probably remembering how she took her first steps in the throne room or something.

"Let's **go**." Eric grinds out in that impatient tone he gets. I hustle Jetta ahead of me, dimly aware that the others are following.

There are small Xs of black electrical tape that mark where we should stand. Jetta is gazing out on the group of media people, setting off wondering comments and photographers' flashbulbs. She's so absorbed in getting her picture taken that she overshoots the mark by a few steps. I groan, very softly.

"Amatuer," Roxy hisses, just loud enough for me to hear, while Stormer stifles a malicious giggle at Jetta's expense. I grab Jetta's arm none too gently and tug her back my way, pointedly tapping my own black X with the toe of my shoe. She gets the hint and moves to hers, just in time.

"Your attention! Your attention, please!" Eric calls out from the middle of the crowd, raising both arms. "I am please to announce the addition of a sizzling star from Britain. England's loss is our gain. The new Misfit: Jetta!"

_'Blah blah blah, Eric. How long did it take you to come up with that little speech?'_ I think bitterly, remembering that he'd never made introductions like that for **me**. Maybe Roxy's got a point. But then again, Eric might just be laying the praise on thick because he thinks that he has a chance to screw Jetta, and not in the financial sense either.

A male reporter with a whiny, nasal voice asks, "Jetta, if you're so famous, how come we've never heard of you?"

"Maybe you've been living under a rock, Yank." Jetta replies with disdain.

"There's a rumor that you're a close friend of the Prince and Princess," states a woman in the crowd.

"The royals," Jetta says, crossing her fingers, "are close personal friends of mine. Oh, yes, like **this**!"

I put a hand on her shoulder and revel in the attention that one little statement gets us.

---

It's not until later, when we've answered all the questions and gone back to the dressing rooms that the doubt hits me. Jetta kept one hand behind her back while she was telling me about the Queen, and when she talked of her 'close, personal friendship' with British royalty to the press, she had her fingers crossed.

She had her fingers crossed.

I wonder. Could she have. . . would she dare to, to **lie** to people like that? To tell a boldfaced falsehood to my face, when I'd as good as threatened to kick her out if she upset me again?

No. No way.


	3. Chapter 3

**Time to Roar, Part Three  
**a misfits femmeslash fanfic by d.l. schizoauthoress 

---

_She don't care  
She ain't the type to play it fair  
Welcome to the Jungle_

_There is danger in her eyes  
As she moves in on her prey  
There is danger in her eyes  
The smart keep out of her way_

---

The day after the press conference, Eric hustled us out of bed early (again! He will pay!), waited impatiently for the four of us to get dressed, and herded us into his car. He explained, after much whining from Jetta and me, that he had to show us something in his office.

I threatened him, "It better be spectacular, Eric, or I'll..." a yawn cut me off, sort of ruining the effect, and I settled for kicking his seat really hard. Jetta snickered. Roxy, who was sitting in the front seat because of the cupholders, clutched a travel mug of black coffee like it was the Holy Grail. And Stormer was passed out behind Roxy, her face pressed against the window and her own bedraggled curls.

Upon our arrival to Misfits Music, Jetta unceremoniously woke Stormer with a hard pinch to her upper arm. Stormer shrieked, jumped from the surprise of it, and knocked her head against the car ceiling. I dragged Jetta from the car as Roxy helped Stormer out, surprised by my own strength and my anger at Jetta's actions. But before I could upbraid Jetta for hurting Stormer, Roxy stalked up, death in her eyes, and swung her aluminum travel mug at our newest member. She was obviously aiming for Jetta's head, but her tiredness, combined with anger, made the swing a bit wild. Instead, the mug thudded hollowly against Jetta's shoulder.

Roxy, shouting over Jetta's cry of pain and Eric's yells at her behavior, said furiously, "You jerk! Don't you ever try to hurt Stormer again! Or Pizzazz! I'll kick your ass!"

"Owww..." Jetta whined, playing up her injury for the pity factor. "You blockhead! That really huuuurt!"

Roxy sneered. Stormer, rubbing the bump on her scalp, frowned. Eric threw his hands into the air and stalked toward the parking garage's elevators. I grabbed Jetta's upper arm (making sure it was the one that Roxy'd hit) and yanked her -- like an unruly child -- along with me. "Stop bullying my friends," I hissed.

Jetta, wincing from my grip, replied softly, "I didn't pinch her that hard, Pizzazz!"

I heard someone scoff behind us, but this time, I wasn't sure if it was Roxy or Stormer. I followed Eric into his office at Misfits Music, with Jetta muttering about 'the Royals' all the way. Once I turned my attention from further daydreams of buddying up to the Queen Mum, I got a good look at the office and froze with shock. My other two bandmates crashed into me, and I let Jetta go.

"Oh. My. God." Stormer stated flatly. Roxy hid a snort of laughter. There was, as usual, the awards and Misfits posters on the wall. A huge black pool table (of faux marble) with red felt dominated the space, as it had been for weeks; it was now coupled with an equally huge faux marble desk, the top covered in clear glass. An entertainment center was built into the far wall. And a bunch of weirdly angular chairs were scattered around, most of them black with either green spots or yellow stripes, with one great big pale yellow one near the pool table. The place definitely didn't look like this when the girls and I were last here.

"Isn't it stunning?" Eric asked proudly. "The chairs are all Fitzgerald Beck originals! Gifts, you know, for helping Fitz with that new show he did. And I finally found a desk to match the Mark S. Ledger pool table."

Oh, god. Fitzgerald Beck was cozying up to Eric -- probably had been searching for a promoter since Maria Costello was nabbed by the police for those stolen jewels. And Eric was lapping it all up, because he loved everything that Beck the 'genius' churned out. Dumb yuppie. He'd probably pay three thousand for a Kleenex box stuffed with Beck's used tissues.

"They look right uncomfortable, Yank," Jetta pointed out.

"Oh, no, they really aren't." Eric led Jetta over one of them. "Here, feel it. It's a hollow foam-rubber shape filled with a soft gel and covered in painted velour."

As Jetta prodded the weird chair, Eric continued, "I just love the way that Fitz has built irony into the juxtaposition of our assumptions about his furniture designs and the reality of them."

Stormer, ignoring them both, wandered over to the pool table. She and Eric play all the time. Roxy circled my waist with her arms and whispered into my ear, "I wonder what kind of justapositions Fitz and Eric get up to." I didn't bother to correct her; I just laughed appreciatively and kissed her neck.

"Hey, Eric," I called, interrupting his flirting, "you gonna feed us today, or what? This is the second day in a row you've woken us up too early! And this time, it was just to look at your goofy office furniture."

Eric sighed, managing to sound both long-suffering and downright irritating at the same time. "Of course, Pizzazz. I'll just call up Prisma and have her pick up breakfast for the thr...the four of you. She ought still be at her apartment," he explained, heading over to the phone on his desk.

"Prisma?" Stormer repeated, pausing in her setup of the pool balls. A look of distaste crossed her face as she complained, "That redheaded chick? You've still got her hanging around, Eric? Ugh!"

"What's the matter with Prisma?" Jetta asked, settling herself into one of the Beck monstrosities. Looking surprised, she commented, "Wow, this really is comfy!"

"Prisma?" Eric asked into the phone. "It's Eric."

"**Prisma**," Stormer cut in loudly, ignoring Eric's warning scowl, "is absolutely clueless about clerical work. She can't file papers worth a damn, never remembers to take down phone messages --"

"Listen, be a doll and pick up some breakfast on your way in," Eric instructed his secretary.

"And she's always painting her fingernails and getting the polish all over!" Stormer finished bitterly. "She **ruined** the original dress I wore to the Music Awards, and remember how she tossed out all the fanmail we got while we were in China?"

"Oh, yeah," Roxy answered. She gave me a little squeeze, then released me from her arms. "And that fanmail included a letter from Cherri Bomb about doing a collaboration. Not to mention that time she forgot to tell us that Paige Bendix called **five times**..."

"To get back the lucky guitar pick she left in the dressing room at the Astrodome," Stormer finished.

"Yes, Prisma, for the Misfits. And me, too." Eric sighed again, "Yes, yes. I'll reimburse you. And you won't get in trouble if you're late..."

I laughed, perching myself on the edge of Eric's desk. "That's right! I picked it up by accident." For Jetta's benefit, I clarified, "All the female entertainers were sharing that big dressing room during the World Hunger Shindig."

Picking up a pool cue, Roxy muttered, "Thank god we figured it out. No thanks to Eric's little lay."

"Thanks again; goodbye." Eric said hurriedly into the receiver. Slamming the phone back into the cradle, he rounded on Roxy and Stormer and hissed, "I think she could hear you!"

Stormer lined up her shot. "So what?"

"She knows that we hate her!" Roxy laughed.

---

After a meal of hotcakes and sausage biscuits from McDonald's, I was in a much better mood, and so was everybody else. Eric and Stormer were playing pool now, with Roxy lounging in the yellow chair by the pool table. I was sitting at the desk, reading the POP scene magazine that Prisma had brought in with Eric's mail. Jetta hovered over my shoulder, her hairspray-stiffened locks brushing against my arm.

"So, where is it?" Jetta asked excitedly.

"Page eighteen: 'Misfits Add New Member'." I said with a pout, "Right next to an ad for **underwear**." At least it was Antonia's Secret underwear, and not some dorky stuff like white cotton Jockeys.

As I held up the magazine to show the others, I grumbled, "The Jem semi-finalists got the whole cover."

"Those are the semi-finalists?" Stormer asked in surprise. "I...I have to go!" She cried over her shoulder as she ran from the room.

As Eric and Roxy approached, Roxy asked in confusion, "What's with her?"

"Who knows?" Eric replied with a shrug. Roxy and I wear identical frowns at his flippant attitude for a moment. But Eric steps forward, the intensity back in his voice. "All right, so we failed to steal Jem's spotlight. But there's another way to get to Jem.

"And I'll start with her." He looks positively devillish as he taps the picture of Carmen Alonso on the magazine cover.


End file.
